lost and found, therein

a certain borrowed friend of mine sent along an article from the New Yorker (7 November issue, but not online; if you'd like a copy, please pipe up in some form) by one David Remnick. "The Translation Wars," it's called, and takes as subject matter a partial (but admittedly selective) history of those who would tackle the reworking of Russian classics (especially Tolstoy and Dostoevsky) into good old-fashioned English. though his assessment that, "without translators, we are left adrift on our various linguistic ice floes, only faintly hearing rumors of masterpieces elsewhere at sea" proves somewhat grandiose, Remnick also identifies what is, at its core, a thankless task, and an oft-criticised one, to boot. while Remnick tells a sweeping, fascinating story—of Constance Garnett, ("work[ing] with such speed, with such an eye toward the finish line, that when she came across a word or a phrase that she couldn't make sense of she would skip it and move on. Life is short, The Idiot is long.") and the Pevear/Volokhonsky team (giving new meaning to the concept "working relationship," though they do), with generous bits of quippy Brodsky and that pinnacle (or butterflied wing, if you prefer) of misanthropic egotism, Nabokov, thrown in for good measure—he fails (although, granted, his intended purpose is nothing much beyond a chronological sketch) to push above the "and then they did [or translated X as] that!" account and into the essential elements of translation itself, as a philosophy and a practise. he had his chance. now i have mine.

that the translation of literary works from one national (heh) language into another constitutes a valuable service, ice floes or not, seems fairly clear. whether this is done with a resigned sigh or a starry-eyed enthusiasm of project matters little on the enterprise itself (although, as below, it has great implication on other aspects of Translation, defined much more broadly than the mere double column of words). given the state of our world and its inhabitants, the eternal minority of whom will know enough of even one other language (let alone the several that would be required to obtain a respectable breadth of knowledge) to read works therein, the obvious rigged-up solution is: to throw in one's lot with the translators, never minding, or accepting on utilitarian grounds, the inadequacy of translations as substitutes for the original book. if it allows some subset of the masses to read Gogol and Goethe (the theory goes), then some little slips of word choice can hardly be cause for a screeching halt to the undertaking itself.

the underlying concern, however, relates not to what amounts to a theory of transmission, or dissemination, but to what happens when, in the process, the fact that this is, no matter what, not Tolstoy that one is reading, at least not solely. while i don't completely subscribed to the Brodsky swagger that "[t]he reason English-speaking readers can barely tell the difference between Tolstoy and Dostoevsky is that they aren't reading the prose of either one. They're reading Constance Garnett," there is an element of truth behind the outlandish form in which it emerges. reading an author is, ultimately, only possible in the author's language. however, a translator (or a salt-worth one, at least) is not that belaboured monkey at the typewriter—but starts with Dostoevsky's manuscript. this point of origin is sufficient to say that, though it might not be Dostoevsky in toto, the translated work contains Dostoevsky—or is an attempt (apologist, perhaps) at Dostoevsky. the sin is one of omission, then, when one closes the cover, breathes a sigh, and claims to just adore that Fyodor (and then, after another deep breath, Russian literature, in general).

provided it is with a precise view of the actual situation, reading in translation poses no moral dilemmas. when it comes to all the others (aesthetic and, roughly speaking, philosophical, among the foremost), however, the same cannot be said quite so glibly. first, there is the case of the bad translation, which either fails to convey either the correct meaning or the particular sense ascribed to (in a word) a word in the original language and, thus, nudges the gullible reader (who cannot check the adjacent page; oh, yes, you know the type of beautiful volume about which i speak) down a path that was disregarded, or simply did not exist in the author's imagination and intention. this is the blatant terror of translation and, as such, is justified in its producing nightmares of great verbal specificity in the translator. it is one thing to mix up words, but another altogether to set down equalities that do not exist and, nonetheless, convince a population that they are seaworthy and imitable.

that a translation can be "wrong" sweeps a corner of the rug back, revealing the potential that any translation is such. this is a slightly different matter than the one raised earlier (as to whether the translated volume contains the author (or, at least his words)), although the two are related. if the translator, despite great attention to detail, can never set down, in new garment and pair of shoes, the author himself—then does it not follow that, since this is a matter of word choice, the translation itself will be incorrect and, moreover, a "correct" one is sheer impossibility?

thus we arrive at the sobering crux of the matter: that, indeed, correct translation cannot be done. this is not to say that it shouldn't, that the publishing houses and the ones who slave and grow blind should be sent to the poorhouses constructed from the abandoned buildings, but only that, when it is an issue of language, individual terms cannot be "chosen:" the very task necessary for any sort of translation. instead, a given language exists as the entity to which any one of its words is accountable, and only in which makes sense. there are seeming exceptions, but they amass to an illiterate-sounding half sentence—certainly not the raw material for even a glancing leap at even a minor author (like Deleuze on Kafka, perhaps? unless even "minor" grants too much room for ridiculous flailings). correct translation would call for an entire language to be mapped upon another and, in addition, for every nuance of the original language to not only be hammered out verbally but also be present in the second dictionary. it's not synonymised as such for nought: better to cleave the tongue and insert a prosthesis.

translators try with all their might to counter the stark reality of what constitutes a crisis of defeat in the profession. in this, they have open to them several options. they can (albeit without the cheeky tongue of yesterday's ethnographer) side with the notion that in stringing out more words, in order to corner a phrase into further and further delimitation, they approach the heart of the original usage. they can fill the bottom of every page with footnotes, referencing key elements of the lexicon of the original language, in an attempt to provide a sufficiently crashed course that the reader can detect a shadow of the looming whole. or they can just plunge ahead, using their best judgment (and, maybe, qualifying this at key moments, but probably not), accepting the outcome as a work whose intended purpose can be only and at best one of indication, rather than designation.

this latter, among all of the projects that never see themselves realised, can succeed, provided the translator knows both of the languages involved. what sounds at first like a absurdly obvious statement is one which, sadly, must be pointed out. pointedly. that languages constitute self-sufficient wholes means that it is a gross error to assume that by leafing through the dictionary, one can sludge through a page of Tolstoy. or Andrić. does this, further, mean that it is, ultimately, impossible to know another language (or to know even one's "mother tongue")? in any case, knowing a language does not mean having at the tip of one's fingers—or even tongue—a set of terms. it means, more closely (although this, too, comes up short), knowing how to use them. most specifically, it means, simply: using them. the translator who "just uses" language of two (or more) ensphered wholes can increase the odds of trundling parcels, in the form of phrases and words, between the two worlds with a tolerable level of "accuracy" (relatively speaking, given the limitations governing every action under discussion). having only one (plus some fraction of the other, which essentially means none) of the languages involved in the translation project is a recipe for an unpalatable concoction of disaster, arrogance, and potential for inflicted harm.

the conditions which must be met in order for translation to occur, even in the inadequate form which bestows upon it its Good Effort medal, are those which allow for the salvation of the task itself—and for it to point beyond itself, as all worthwhile things must. that is: if the translator is adept in both of the languages he straddles and, moreover, attempts to twist these into a braid that will survive the violent ride ahead, then despite the fact that there is no such hope for the translation itself, there is, however, a glimmer for the overarching conception of language: as it exists in its many forms and the kinds of wizardry of which it, as multiple multiple, is capable. the inherent value of translation is not directed at (nor can it be seen by) the one who would (for purposes ranging from mere inquisitiveness and brutal honesty about one's abilities—to the kind of pretension that seizes the first year undergraduate and then appears again, this time for good, in graduate school) read the translated copy. instead, it is known, ever so quietly, only and forever by the humble and deft translator.

for such a one, the act of translation is, at its core, a true living in two languages at once, with the absolutely vital addition: living between them, doing the work that is of the hardest and most rewarding kind exactly here, in the rift formed by their plates wrenching up against each other. he who reads a translation believes that the two earths have always lain, sewn up and sleepy; the translator (professional or ontological) knows all the ways in which the mountains could crumble in an instant, upon a word spoken in but a whisper. in spite of—or, rather, because of—the danger, the translator knows that his is the only position from which to view the two separate, but looking downright junctured from where he peers at them, wholes. in knowing the particularities of that which is irreconcilable between the two languages, the ways truces have been attempted (by less worthy others) and have failed, and, most of all, understanding that his muscle and skill are, finally, subject to another—that of Language itself—the translator comes away knowing more about the two languages which lie on either face of the mountain and, moreover, has not defaced either entity in the process. this knowledge (what can be done in/by language, what cannot, the ways in which it can or cannot, the reasons or mysteries behind this) is only possible from his vantage point. that this is the very one most clamorers never reach means that these can only simulate thought, having failed to grasp Language's truth: that it is composed of many wholes, each of which is incomplete without having been involved in the life-long skirmish with each of the other elements in the set.

the translator may be unable to publish the results (how to write in Language, we who are confined to our small letters, our monosyllables—and what printing press would accept the infinite tome?). he has even bartered with, and lost, his own voice. but he has arrived at the beating heart of the blur—and leaves, thinking in tongues.